


softly

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Scotland, Tharkay's mysterious estate, Trans Female Character, Trans Female William Laurence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 19:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18505735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Laurence is happy in Scotland, happy with Tharkay and Temeraire and their new life.Mostly.





	softly

**Author's Note:**

> I did my best to treat the topic respectfully, but of course I also tried to portray characters framing these issues in ways realistic to the 19th-century. Laurence is referenced using male pronouns for most of the fic, which seemed more fitting to represent her conflict.

Tharkay's Scotland manor is lovely, and the days and months since the end of the war have seen Laurence fall into a quiet routine. His initial uncertainty as Tharkay's guest was quickly swept away; Temeraire is having a Pavilion constructed on the grounds, and this morning, as Laurence sat down in the parlor, Tharkay leaned over to clasp his hand.

A few years ago Laurence might have balked at this relationship, at all that it implies. But today he only smiled briefly, and Tharkay talked about his plans to walk the ground, to speak to a falconer visiting the town and perhaps try to acquire another bird. They discussed the merits of various falcon types for awhile, and had a very nice breakfast.

But then Tharkay said the thing that Laurence keeps thinking about.

First, Laurence mentioned a letter from his mother. Perhaps she was bored when she began writing, or so pent with frustration that she forgot her audience. Either way he was surprised to receive a letter which detailed, for three pages, her ongoing frustration with picking the perfect outfit for an upcoming dinner with her friend, who is a newly-made duchess. The merits of cotton batiste versus muslin confounds him utterly, much less the downsides to various varieties of silks, and Laurence confessed to Tharkay that he has no idea how to reply.

And Tharkay said, “No, I am sure you do not; you are sometimes every stereotype of a man, Will. I would not expect you to know a thing about dresses.”

And then he smiled, and touched Laurence on the hand again. And he left.

Now it is four hours gone, and Laurence is still thinking about that comment. Tharkay did not mean anything by it, he knows. It was just an idle comment, but...

Every stereotype of a man.

He finds himself pacing the grounds, filled with restless energy. He keeps turning over that phrase. He has been a little restless for weeks now – it is strange to have so much free time, and attending parties or refitting the grounds is hardly a replacement for several decades of hard service. But the fervor that fills him now is different, maddening.

Every stereotype of a man.

“Hello, Laurence,” says Temeraire when Laurence's path take him to the dragon's half-formed Pavilion. There are no workers today; the ground is soft from a recent downpour, and the mud would make it difficult to build. “I have just been thinking about a new bill, which I should like your opinion on – Lord Hardington has some very strange ideas. But why do you look like that? You seem unhappy.”

“I beg your pardon,” says Laurence. “I do not mean to.”

“But you _are_ unhappy,” says Temeraire, who is not wrong. “Please tell me why.”

“It is nothing,” says Laurence. “Pray tell me about your bill.”

But Temeraire refuses. He presses the matter. “The first months here were so nice,” he says. “But you are looking more and more troubled, Laurence, and you never say why. Is it too dull here, or do you miss the Corps? I thought were glad to be with Tharkay.”

“I am,” says Laurence. He means it. “I could hope for no better company than the two of you, my dear. But what I have been occupied with– I do not know why it weighs so heavily. It is something that has troubled me for years, as long as I can remember; yet I have managed to be content in spite of it.”

This feels like a lie, which Laurence doesn't realize until he says the words. But he hasn't _always_ been unhappy. That's ridiculous. He shakes his head.

“But you still have not explained the problem,” says Temeraire expectantly.

This is true. Laurence finds himself glancing about - but they are alone, of course.

Laurence is retired. There is no longer any reason to worry about his career; furthermore his reputation can scarcely get any more strange. He knows Temeraire, of all creatures, would never judge him anyway. He will probably find Laurence's thoughts strange, as anyone would. But Temeraire will not judge him.

“Sometimes,” Laurence says, “I think I would like to be a woman.”

The words fall out with the weight of an anchor. Laurence braces himself, unable to look Temeraire in the eye.

Temeraire shifts around, considering, and drops his head on the ground beside Laurence. Perhaps to see him better. It seems to take him a very long time to respond.

When he does, his voice is thoughtful.

“That _is_ difficult,” the dragon admits. “I am not sure how one could manage it, anymore than you might turn into a dragon, or I could turn into a man. I think I have read some Chinese fables where people change form, though. Perhaps we could write to my mother?”

“Gracious, no,” Laurence says, laughing a little despite himself. He sways on his feet, and reaches out to touch Temeraire's snout; the dragon nudges him affectionately. “Pray say nothing, Temeraire – not to anyone. I have told you before that people can get arrested, for a relationship like Tenzing and I have. I am afraid what I have told you is – perhaps worse, and viewed even more poorly.”

“Oh,” says Temeraire. “Well, I do not see why. I am sorry that you are sad, but it is not as though you are trying to hurt anyone.”

“People would say it's disgusting,” Laurence says. “Immoral.”

Temeraire bristles. “I do not think much of human morality,” he declares, digging his claws against the ground. “No; if you want to be a woman, we shall make you one. I could buy you dresses?”

“I think that would look quite ridiculous,” Laurence says, truthfully; he's a very broad-shouldered man. “And while I appreciate the thought, I am afraid it is an issue that goes beyond mere clothes.”

He ignores Temeraire's disappointed mutter, “But women's clothes are so much _nicer._ ”

They both sit together in thought for a moment, Laurence leaning heavily against the dragon's side. At last Temeraire proposes another idea. “Well, if you should like to be a woman, than perhaps I can tell the other dragons that visit us, so they will address you like one. And I will, too.”

That sounds wonderful, and also horrible. No different than when someone calls him _admiral,_ or prince – a polite fiction. A lie, that ignores every truth of the matter – to not even speak of the speculation it would encourage.

“No,” says Laurence at last. “No, my dear. I do not see how that would benefit.”

Temeraire flicks his tail and coils tighter around Laurence. He seems a little uncertain about the conversation, but evidently Laurence isn't hiding his distress very well. “Perhaps we ought to talk to Tharkay?” Temeraire suggests. “He might have some idea.”

Laurence closes his eyes. The sun feel warm against his skin, and he listens to the slow pound of Temeraire's heartbeat through his scales. Already the conversation has gone better than he expected – so why does it hurt so much?

“No,” says Laurence again. His chest tightens, but he must say it. “No. Do not tell Tenzing anything.”

* * *

 

Tharkay does, indeed, return with a bird. Laurence inspects it with due solemnity, and leaves them to get acquainted; Tharkay meets him later that night with his hands covered in scratches and laughter in his voice. He declares the bird to be an idiot and sounds thrilled about it. He kisses Laurence, and they go to the bedroom.

It would surprise many people – the sorts of people who think men only sleep with men because of uncontrollable lust – to know that Laurence and Tharkay are rarely physical; the mood strikes neither of them very often. It is even more rare that they do more than lend a hand, or a mouth. Sex between men is a messy business, Laurence has found, and requires some significant forethought. But when they _do_ have sex, it always goes the same way.

Tharkay has never seemed bothered by this, except to ask precisely once if Laurence would rather enter him. Laurence refused, and the matter was dropped.

But perhaps the talk with Temeraire is still too fresh in his mind. Afterward Laurence lies in bed for awhile, Tharkay still and sleeping at his side, and wonders about men who sleep with men. Does Tharkay expect them to switch roles, because other men would want to? Is it strange, that Laurence doesn't? There is a common theme throughout history, where men who play the submissive in bed are considered effeminate or weak. Laurence has never given the matter much thought. It never seemed right, to him.

But sometimes, when Tharkay hold him chest-to-chest, pressing inside, he feels small. Safe. And it's easy to forget the reality of his body, which is tall and strong. And male.

Tharkay makes a soft sound in his sleep. It cracks through the room like a gunshot. Laurence closes his eyes briefly, exhaling to relax his racing heart. Then he stands, quietly dresses, and goes outside to spend the rest of the night beside Temeraire.

* * *

  
Days bleed into weeks. Tharkay spends a great deal of time training his new bird. Laurence spends most of his hours with Temeraire, who suddenly seems to be at the manor much more often than before. Laurence always asks if he doesn't need to be away to work on his political ideas, or make connections, but Temeraire always evades the subject until it is dropped.

It's foolish, Laurence knows, to so desperately want something he cannot have. It is even worse to find himself constantly distracted by his thoughts. It is 1816 – he is forty-two. He is too old for fantasies, too old to spend the days pining for a life he cannot have. But he can't help it.

He spends the days reading to Temeraire as the Pavilion starts to take shape. At first Tharkay joins them only occasionally; then he comes more and more, sometimes visiting several times in the same day. He sits close to Laurence and listens to him read with a furrow between his brows.

In May Tharkay starts prodding Laurence to attend parties at some of the nearby houses. Laurence always declines, except when Tharkay himself goes, and then he feels obligated to provide good company. He's not sure where the sudden interest comes from – Tharkay has never much cared for Society beyond their select number of friends, and indeed he always seems bored when they arrive. By July his interest seems to fade, but he joins Laurence outside more and more often. Sometimes they go on walks together, and really it's only with good company that Laurence can start to shake the gloom that's fallen over him. But, still, it is not enough. Not with a heart so guarded, and a secret he does not dare to speak.

* * *

 

“Are you bored here?” asks Tharkay one night.

It surprises Laurence. They've been talking and sipping wine in the kitchen, leaning covertly against the counter as though cook will enter any minute to scold them away. But it's late – in fact Laurence was about to retire to his rooms – and for a moment the question confuses him.

“No,” he says, though it does not feel quite true. “No, Tenzing, not at all.”

Tharkay eyes him. “It is not me,” he says at last. Not a question, this time. “I thought so, at first – but you are not tired of me.”

“Never,” says Laurence, even more startled now. His answer makes Tharkay smile briefly, a small quirk of his lips. Laurence adds, “I have never been more content,” and the smile fades.

“Now, that is a lie,” says Tharkay quietly. He sets his glass on the counter. “You are not well, Will. You are not happy here.”

“I am perfectly fine,” Laurence snaps, and immediately regrets it.

Tharkay does not seem surprised by his temper. He just regards Laurence thoughtfully a minute, then turns and picks up a cigar case from the mantle. “Follow me,” he tells Laurence abruptly, and walks away.

After a moment, Laurence does.

Tharkay leads him to the dayroom, which is one of his favorite places at all hours, despite the room's name. The interior is warm and inviting, and Tharkay pauses to add a few logs to the fire, which burns in the grate despite the hour. Laurence sits down by one of the room's broad windows, which usually faces the rising sun. Now he sees only stars and a broad expanse of black. Perhaps this is why Tharkay favors the room.

Tharkay sits next to him, on the same chair, and takes out a cigar.

“I have been talking with Temeraire,” he begins, lighting it. Tharkay does not smoke much, but he offers the cigar to Laurence, who after a moment accepts it. “I hope you will forgive him. He has been fretting, I think – and I confess that I was very hard on him. It has not been easy, seeing you like this. And you know that Temeraire has never been good with secrets.”

Laurence has to lower the cigar, coughing. His hands shake.

He waits for it – the inevitable accusation – but Tharkay surprises him.

“Have you ever been to India?” he asks.

Laurence nods slowly. “Twice,” he admits. “While in the navy.”

“And while you were there,” Tharkay says, “Did you ever hear about the _hijra_?”

Laurence says nothing.

Perhaps Tharkay expects this. “They are a third sex, recognized for thousands of years. People born as men, who are recognized socially as women.” He pauses a moment. “Nepal recognizes _hijra,_ too. I met several, when I lived there for a time.”

Laurence sits still for a moment. He scarcely dares to breath, but Tharkay just waits. “I do not think it is the same,” he says at last. He does not know how else to respond; his heart beats wildly in his chest.

“No,” Tharkay concedes. “Perhaps not; I can scarcely claim to understand the desire. But I have met others, too – even men here in Britain, who want to wear dresses, and people born as women who disguise themselves and take wives. You are hardly alone in your thoughts. Of all the things I imagined might trouble you, this did not even enter my speculations. But do not think I would hate you for it.” He plucks the cigar from Laurence's hands.

Laurence covers his face. If asked he could not begin to explain the conflicting emotions assailing him. But Tharkay sits patiently while he shakes, leaning against Laurence and puffing on the cigar.

“So,” says Tharkay, when he's sufficiently recovered. “What do you want to do now?”

* * *

The new Chinese robes Temeraire commissioned for her shimmer red and yellow in the sun. Yellow is a color worn by the Imperial family, he told Laurence proudly when the package arrived. It made her laugh.

And perhaps it should feel strange, sitting here in Britain wearing silk robes. But after she donned them Tharkay pulled her outside without any hint of disquiet, though all the servants could see, and gossip will spread. “You have every right to dress like a Chinese prince,” he reminded her. “And only we need to know that you are more of a princess, instead.”

Laurence didn't argue. What could she say, to something like that?

They sit at Temeraire's finished Pavilion and talk. Really it isn't different from any other day; nothing monumental has shifted. Tharkay makes appreciative comments on the colors Temeraire chose for his construction, and they all agree that his Pavilion will be a very fine place for parties. But then Temeraire complains about how to arrange chairs and tables for humans, so that they can also talk freely to dragon-guests, and Tharkay says, “Perhaps Will can write to her mother for you; Lady Allendale knows a great deal about planning parties, I should think.”

Temeraire makes an agreeable sound and launches into some other point, which is good, because Laurence couldn't speak if she tried.

It is such a small thing, that word. Except it's not. She never dreamed that someone would recognize her as a woman – simply, sincerely.

Temeraire continues to prattle about parties. When she looks up, though, Tharkay watches her. His expression seems very soft. He reaches out and runs a thumb over her cheek, cupping the side of her face. He's been much more tactile since their talk. Perhaps even in circumstances such as theirs, touch can be offered more freely to a woman. Or maybe he just wants to reassure Laurence that he cares, that he's not disgusted.

Laurence hasn't asked. She doesn't want him to stop.

Except maybe he won't. He leans over to kiss her forehead, very gently. Temeraire stops talking to peer at them.

“Are you happy?” Tharkay asks. Beyond him sunlight shines down over the grassy expanse of the manor's grounds, like an endless green ocean.

Laurence says yes. And, for once, she means it.

 


End file.
